LIBRARY. OF CONGRESS. 

Chap.L.„... Copyright No. 

Shelf3»^H5' 



iBiy 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



MOSAICS, LYRICS, AND SELECTIONS 

FROM THE POEMS OF 

MARCUS FAYETTE BRIDGMAN. 



TOGETHER WITH 

SELECTIONS FROM 

MOSSES 

UNDER THE PINE 

SEAWEED 

lY\f.ES AT THE MANSE 

BY ^ 
MARCUS FAYETTE BRIDGMAN 






FRED S. COLLINS 



Boston, IHass. ..^-^n *^ 



.^'Ay 



20 Brattle St. 
1897 



\ \^.^^ 



V — 



\ 



COFYRIGHT, 3896, BV FrED S, CoLL'MS. 



E. E. Fishley Press, Boston. 



To F. S. C. 

I LOOK ACROSS THE YEARS 
WHICH SEPARATE US, 

AND October sends a greeting to June. 



CONTENTS. 



Mosaics and Lyrics. 

PAGE. 

Tsyche and (Death * . . » ii 

On a Lock of Hair . . . . .14 

Lament for the (burial of Love . . ij 

Love and War • . . . .16 
The Song ..... 27 

The Portrait . . . . .18 

The ^ose of Agelthorn . . . . ip 

Westward ..... m 

In That Land . . . . . :3^ 

A Lay of Autumn .... ^j 

Stanzes . . . • • » ^J 



CONTENTS, 



^ose of Summer .... '2,"] 

We Stood in the Wain of a (bying (Day . ^5 

At Thy "Portals— A Sap:phic Ode . . ^g 

The Wind was (bead in the Forest . , ^o 

The Lily and the (Rose . . . 31 

Waiting — An Alcaic Ode . . * ^2 

The Cold Heart .... _5_5 

At Last . . . . . . _54 

Selections from Mosses. 
In the La'p of Earth .... ^^ 

On Looking at the Portrait of (Burns . ^8 

Under the Willow . . . '4^ 

One Eve . , , . . 44 

Selections from Under the Pine, 

Agnes . . • • • .46 

A (Revery . . . , . jo 

Selections from Seaweed. 

Toward the (Bourne . . . • J'-Z 

Adeline ..... j-j 

After the Wreck . . . . ' SJ 

The Two Ways . . . -57 

Selections from Tales at the Manse. 

The Millers ^Laughter . . • ^c? 



Probably there is never any quite new literary method. Certainly 
the greatest writers were not creators of the form or forms they adopt- 
ed: /Escbylus, Sophocles, Euripides, Shakespeare, Racine, Goethe, 
Hugo. But after all, these things matter little. The "form," be it 
what it may, is open to all. Our concern should be, not with the 
accident of formal similitude, but with the living and convincing re- 
ality behind the form. WiiJJAM Sharp. 




PSYCHE AND DEATH. 

Psyche. 
Long have we journeyed, and behind us now 
In the dim distance stretches all the way, 
Before us are the shadows deep as night. 

Death. 
We shall be in the realm of shadows soon. 

Psyche. 
And is there any day? 

Death. 

No day is there. 
There nothing stirs. Thou shalt lie down and sleep. 

Psyche. 
A gloomy realm, methinks. 

Death. 
And dost thou think 
It is so gloomy to lie down and sleep? 



12 Mosaics and Lyrics, Psyche°and beath. 



Psyche. 

I fain would some remembrance hold of what 

Has been. 

Death. 

Thou wilt have no remembrance of the Past, 

No memory of past joys, nor any thought 

Of sorrow. There all sorrow and all joy, 

In that still place, will be forgotten. 

Psyche. 

Fain 
Of sorrow some remembrance I would have, 
Than lose all memory of the joys that were. 

Death. 

There is in the remembrance of all joy 

A sadness. 

Psyche. 

Once I had a friend on whom 

I doated. Now, whene'er I think of him 

I'm melancholy at the thought of that 

Rare friendship nipt by ruthless fate. 

Death. 

Thy youth 

Was fairy-land, wherein grew many a flower 
And all sweet smelling herbs. You think, alas, 
It ever is so far away. Would you 
Recall life's bitterness? Enough that once 
You've drunk its bitter waters. 



Psyche and Death. MOSOlCS aihCl LyvtCS . ^'^ 



Psyche. 

But to have 
All memory quite razed out and thought itself, 
Were blank oblivion. 

Death. 

What matters it? 
You have no pleasure and you have no pain. 
Psyche. 

silent, gloomy night, without a star ! 

And on that night when will the morning dawn? 

Death. 
The sepulchre forever bounds my ken. 

1 see no further than its dead dark wall. 
If thou hast faith — 

Psyche. 
Yes, faith, that looks beyond the dead dark wall. 
Beyond it breaks the morning light. There is 
No night. Thy kingdom shall be given up, 
And there be no more death. 

Death. 
And is thy faith so strong? 

Psyche. 
But the day darkens and the air grows still. 

Death. 
Now are we on the confines of the vrorld. 
The sleepy shadows beckon. Let us go. 




ON A LOCK OF HAIR. 



Only this lock of hair, 

And Death has claimed the rest, 

The graceful form, the features that were fair, 

Only Remembrance, and this lock of hair, 

Left now of that rare life which was so brief. 

The years will bring the spring, the yellow sheaf, 

But nevermore the last year's wither'd leaf. 

Not yet the perfume goes 

Of the dead summer rose. 

And all that once was fair 

Yet lingers in this lock of hair. 

And will, in each frail thread. 

Till late from my chill'd sense, 

Fades the dim world, and Memory's self is dead. 



lamp:nt for the burial of love. 

He was so fair, 

He walked the world so debonaire. 

To-day are closed his eyes, 

He does not stir, he has no warmth, 

Where he lies. 

Let o'er him grow, 

Each season yet to be, 

The rarest flowers that blow, 

For Love is dead, 

Low is lying, and the earth his bed. 

O, often youths and maidens here 

Will come for many a year, 

Henceforth so often they 

Will sorrowing say, 

"Now all the world has colder grown, 

Since he is dead, and Hope itself has flown." 




LOVE AND WAR. 



Back from the alarms of war I come, 
And seek no more a warrior's name, 

I come again to love and home. 

And reck no more, no more of fame. 

For what is Fame but fleeting breath? 

To martial fields 1 bid adieu, 
I lay my laurels at your feet, 

And come at last to home and you. 




THE SONG. 



Yet in these quiet hours 

Your tones I seem to hear, 

And one rare song you sung, 

'Twas when the leaves were sere. 



A short and simple lay, 

A song of reaping-time, 

Of still October days, 

And the year's vanish'd prime. 

I well recall the words. 

Which had a sad refrain, 

While in the field below 

The reapers reaped the grain. 



So in these quiet hours 

Your tones I seem to hear, 
And one rare song you sung, 

'Twas when the leaves were sere. 



THE PORTRAIT. 

The countenance is fair, 

And lives upon the canvas here, 

A face untoucht by care. 

The lips are mute, but eloquent 

To Fancy's ear, 

The soft eyes telling me a tale of Love 

In some forgotten year. 

vision of an unknown time, 

Which art so near and yet so far away, 

Linking the Past forever with To-Day, 

Fain would I divine 

In this still face of thine, 

A life from sorrow free, 

A quiet current flowing to the sea. 

And yet in musing mood I ask. 

If any supreme grief darken'd thy soul. 

Making the whole world drear? 

1 cannot tell. I only know that here 

I see the light which beamed from this still face, 
In some forgotten vear. 




THE ROSE OF AGELTHORN. 

A SOFT flush warmed the western sky, 
A low wind in the pine was sighing, 
('Twas in the summer, but long ago,) 
And a robin sung in the locust-tree. 
When a day was dying. 

Fair were the flowers in the garden-plot. 
That drank the freshest dew at morn. 
And rare the rose and the tulip-beds. 
But rarer than the rarest flower, 

Was the Rose of Agelthorn. 



Poem VII. 

20 Mosaics and Lyrics, '^AoSi.hTrf 



*'The days," she said, ''and the months creep by. 
But weary now are the hours to me, 
Will he return when the year will go? 
Yet far away is the Orient, 

And treacherous the sea." 

The days creep by and the months return. 
The ivy climbs o'er the vacant door. 
At morn and eve the robin sings 
In the locust tree, and the low wind sighs 
In the pine evermore. 

Alone she sits in her room at eve. 

Alone at noontide and at morn. 

And the sad days go and the months creep by, 

But a footstep never crosses again 

The threshold of Agelthorn. 




WESTWARD. 

The road runs where it run of old, 

And here we walk to-day 

Again the narrow way, 

Beyond us is the wold. 

The soft light wanes. 

But glow our cottage window-panes 

Against the sunset sky. 

While warm the fields below us lie. 

And backward here we look 

From this still spot 

To one hour we have not forgot, 

Since hand in hand we walk'd 

In sunshine and in stormy weather, 

The self-same path together. 

Not yet has chill'd our love the rime 

Of frosty years, of change and time. 

If on our journey lies 

The light of cooler western skies. 

And the way the shorter grows. 

Each season blooms for us the rose. 

So let the swift years glide. 

But Faith and Love abide. 

Till the last wave is spent of Life's last tide. 




IN THAT LAND. 

Far over the sea in the west 

Is the Beautiful Land, 

By softest breezes fanned, 
And perfumed by odorous flowers, 

A land of all lands, 
Where always the fleeting hours 

In the hour-glass are golden sands, 
And evermore there 
Are banished sorrow and care. 

There the soul recovers its youth. 

Its virtue and truth, 
And reversed are the errors of Time, 
In that far off clime. 

There blinded Faith is sight. 

And gropes no longer the ways of night, 
And the thing that is, is the thing that should be, 
In that Beautiful Land, 
Far over the sea. 




A LAY OF AUTUMN. 

A Mellow light sleeps in the leafless woods, 

And all the vale is filled with golden haze 5 

From lowland and from upland comes no sound 

That stirred ere while the pulse of summer days. 



And there the long reach of the river looks 

Below me like a stream of molten gold, 

And from the sleepy sky the autumn sun 

Illumes the hedge-rows and the distant wold. 



Poem X. 

24 Mosaics and Lyrics. ^ ^ay °f 



The harvesters have sung their harvest song, 

And to its garner brought the ripen'd grain, 

Bare in the silence are the vacant farms, 

And stands within the yard the empty wain. 

Sitting beside the casement of my room, 

I musing think that summer yet will come, 

The genial breath of spring at length restore 

To deadened fields the life that now is dumb. 

But overflows the gladdened heart of man, 

Whose faith in nature's promise still is clear, 

The seed-time and the harvest shall not fail, 

Through all the changes of the changeful year. 





STANZAS. 
I. 

The rose is red 

On a rich, rank sward, 
For the red rose blooms 

In the still church-yard. 

A lily I see 

By the rare red rose, 
And the lily pale 

On a green grave grows ! 



Ah, and the ivy gleams 

In the church-yard lone, 

Alas, for the ivy- vine, 

And a low white stone ! 



26 Mosaics and Lyrics, sTanzas.* 



II. 

Gray, gray, was the sky, 

And over the dreary lea 

Blew the wind from the sad salt sea. 

Vain, vain, were the tears. 

When a hope that had lingered yet. 
At length, in a gray dawn set. 

III. 

Hence they brought him dead, 

From a field so red. 

They dropt no tear 

Upon the soldier's bier. 

When they bore him from the strife. 

Saying, ''Death was more than Life, 

Since he battled for a noble cause, 

For the rights of men and juster laws." 

So they laid him to his rest, 
With his sword upon his breast. 
The hero in his spotless fame. 
The warrior with a deathless name. 




ROSE OF SUMMER. 



Rose, rose, 
From your sleep awakened, 
And the clear dew drinking, 
In the bare morn blushing. 



Rose, rose, 
With your rich, rare perfume 
All the sweet air scenting. 
In the glare noon glowing. 

Rose, rose, 
Like a still, soft sunset 
O'er a fair sky flushing, 
In a dead day dying! 




WE STOOD IN THE WANE OF A DYING DAY. 

Deep down in a dell 

Where a low wind crept, 
We stood in the grass 

As the warm day waned — 
Then we said, "Our love, 

Returns nevermore ! 
And the last year's rose 

Again blooms not." 

Deep down in a dell 

Where a slow stream stole, 
I stood in the light 

Of a star lit eve — 
"Alas! Love returns 

Nevermore!" I said, 
"And the last year's rose 

Again blooms not." 



^^^^'^^^^^^^^^^^i 



AT THY PORTALS. 



A SAPPHIC ODE. 



Hither, Tomb, wendetli the long procession, 
Youth, and bent Age, Manhood, your mansions seeking, 
Where in thy chill shadow the quiet sleepers 
Reck not of sorrow. 

Here forevermore they lay down Life's burden, 
Here they sleep so well in your voiceless stillness, 
Over whose oblivious threshold never 
Breaks the world's tumult. 

Here are hearts so cold, and is Passion perish'd. 
Greatness lies so low, and but dust Earth's glory : 
Here is Fame's voice never an echo waking, 
Hush'd in thy silence. 

What, O Tomb, though over thee breaks no morning, 
What if Life's waves break nevermore your slumber? 
Hope your dark door arches, and Love forever 
Sits at thy portals. 




THE WIND WAS DEAD IN THE FOREST. 

The wiud was dead in the forest, 

Was dead on the upland and lea, 
The thistle droop'd in the sunshine, 
Was silent the voice of the streamlet, 
And the noise of the mill. 

The willows were warm in the lowland, 

The leaves of the aspen were still, 
Nor stirr'd the shade in the noonday. 
Was hush'd in the quiet woodland 
The song of the thrush. 



The sound of the shrill cicada 

Was heard on the upland and lea, 
But deep in the drowsy forest, 
Where he sat a-dreaming alone. 

Awoke not the owl. 




THE LILY AND THE ROSE. 

They stand beside the garden gate, 
So soft the breeze that o'er them blows — 
She plucks a lily newly blown, 
And he a rose. 



''And surely these," at length, they said, 
"Far more than words our love disclose "- 
He quietly the lily took. 

And she the rose. 



P"it emblems of their fickle love 
That went before the summer's close- 
The lily faded at the eve. 

At dawn the rose. 




WAITING. 



AN ALCAIC ODE. 



To-night afar lies one by the cypress tree ; 

Beneath the warm, strange skies of the Orient, 
At rest forever in the silence, 

Quietly under the greensward sleeping. 

In yonder vale one watches at eventide 

For him who comes not but in her revery, 
And still in dreams she hears so often 

Footsteps that cross not the silent threshold. 

O weary months to one in her loneliness, 

That waits for him who sleeps in the cypress-shade ! 
While * 'Nevermore" the pine is sighing, 

Sighing the cypress ^'Forever," "Never!" 



THE COLD HEART. 

The poppy blossoms in the garden-plot 

Of Langley Place, but now the flower-beds there 

Are chok'd by weeds, and rank the nettle grows 

Beside the garden wall. Still is the house 

Behind the untrim'd shubbery, and rank 

Neglected vines o'erun the silent porch. 

One inmate has the mansion, Ellen Clare, 

Who hides her life within its solitude, 

Where all days are as one from year to year. 

I knew him Edward Gray, a likely lad, 

Who often came to Langley Place in years 

Agone. And when he asked her hand one day. 

She said, " When flies the swallow from the South, 

Another year, perchance." So Edward toiled 

The summer through, in old Hugh Carter's fields. 

The summer went, the autumn months, at length. 

And when the swallow from the South had come, 

Again he asked her hand. Again she said, 

"Another year. The swallow soon will go." 

And fate, that moment, sealed the heartless words, 

For Ellen, to this day, was never wed. 

But in the lonely rooms of Langley Place 

Has lived, and sometimes reads her old love letters. 




AT LAST. 

Long since, it went, the flush from all the landscape ^ 
And with it went the long, bright days of summer. 
At this calm evening, in the sere October, 
Clear glows the sun along the western hillside, 
And on the streamlet, in the silent meadow. 
Sleeps the soft sunshine of the golden sunset. 
Bare are the trees, in yonder copse of maples, 
That stand midway the slope below the woodland, 
Through which the pleasant autumn sun is shining, 
And in the copse, about a lonely headstone, 
Are thickly strown the scarlet leaves and yellow. 





IN THE LAP OF EARTH. 



Hard by the dusty highway of the village, 
The ancient wall secludes the still inclosure, 
A peaceful plot of earth, the village church-yard. 



Not far from 
the well- 
worn road. 



And near it stands the ancient church whose windows 
On one side from the high and narrow casements, 
Look silent o'er it with their panes so sombre. 



Near it the 
rustic fane 



Kank grows the grass beneath its solemn shadow, 
tSo dense and wild on that dark soil the greenery^ 
And rank the elder by the gloomy gateway. 



Luxuriant 

is the 

greenery 

there. 



^^ Selections. m .hf £" o"^ E»,.h. 



Across the wall luxuriant creeps the bramble, 
be"brambie. Aucl groups of Children in the pleasant weather 
Will often come to pluck its o'er-ripe berries. 

About the ^^^^ there you'll see the red fruit of the eglantine, 
anVe^1;een And here and there a sad, low shrub of hemlock, 

an 

evergreen, A stuuted fir, a scarlct-colored sumac. 



A willow or 
an aspen. 



Sometimes a willow or a scattered aspen, 

A rosebush there which early blooms in summer, 

On some low mound the green leaves of the ivy. 



There oft you'll see the white flowers of the bindweed, 
andSer ^^^^ evcry May the violet or the bellwort, 



Many an 

early 
md lat( 

flower 



In later months the aster and the cinquefoil. 



In autumn The Icavcs yet glowing on the wrinkled grapevine, 

the leaves of 

the grape- In the bare birches and the leafless locust, 

vine in the 

an^d'^iocTust ^^' ^^ ^^^ fcucc a lingering goldenrod. 



The shades of night upon the grass are falling, 
the °twiHght Where yet a woman lingers in the twilight. 

And through the plaintive silence steal these accents 



Poem XX. 
In the Lap of Earth. 



Selections, 



37 



*' Green is their turf, so green, who here are sleeping! 
The hillock long be green where weeps the willow, 
And twine the ivy round this quiet headstone. 



By 

a hillocl 



Here oft be seen the king-cup and the daisy, 
And ever on this spot the year's first violet, 
In every coming autumn late the aster." 



A voice, 





ON LOOKING AT THE PORTRAIT OF BURNS. 



In fancy winds the Doon and blooms the heather, 

It flows, and 

blooms, Still waves on Coila's sunny rigs the thistle, 

and waves. *' "^ 

And caller gowans deck the field each season. 



"^of natSre^^ There Spring its soft flush brings to all the landscape- 
hiXareVic- Looks fair on bonnie braes the skies of Summer, 

tured to the t t i 

imagination. And goldcu Autumu shiucs ou fell and dingle. 



Oft as the light of morning gilds the upland, 

Oft as 

these scenes Qr in the shaw the Doon at mid-day lingers, 

return, "^ ^ ' 

Or nightly sleeps the moon upon its bosom, 



Poem XXI. 
On Looking at the 
Portrait of Burns. 



Selections. 



39 



Oft as are beard in mellow days the voices 
Of cantie harvesters within the ryefield, 
Or talk of reapers in the bearded barley, 

Or lads and lassies gather at the hamlet, 

In moonlight dance upon the leesome greensward, 

Or in the gloamin chat beneath the hawthorn, 

Or often as the cotter sits at even 

With ruddy face before the glowing hearthstane, 

And near, with quiet air, the gentle guidwife, 

Or caddies clatter idly at the alehouse, 

Or household tale is told by winter fireside. 

Or carlin croons her song beside the chimlie. 

So long shall there each rural scene and pleasure, 
Lang Syne to every Scot so oft reviving. 
Recall the name of Scotia's rustic poet ! 



So fresh his memory shall be kept forever 
By every breeze that whispers in the brachen, 
Or curls the grass beside each Scottish burnie, 



40 



Selections. 



Poem XXI. 
On Looking at the 
Portrait of Burns. 



B ever ^y every wind that sways the summer thistle, 
^'rustie's^^* Or stirs the heather on the lonely moorlan, 
arey. ^^ gently rustles in the bearded barley, 



So fresh his ^J ©vcry lad and lassie at the clachan, 



memory 



shall be kept In every dance upon the leesome greensward, 

in cottage 

and hamlet. In Bvcry cottagc by the lighted ingle ! 



Bonnie, beautiful. 

Bracken, ferns. 

Brae, a bank, a declivity. 

Burn, Burnie, water, a rivulet. 

Caller, fresh. 

Cantie, cheerful, merry. 

Clachan, a small hamlet. 

Clatter, to tell little, idle stories. 

Coila, a district of Ayrshire. 

Cotter, the inhabitant of a cottage. 

Carlin, a stout old woman. 

Chimlik, a fireplace. 

Caddie, a young fellow. 

Dingle, a dale. 



Fell, a level field on the side or top of a 

hill. 
Gowans, daisy, dandelion, hawkweed, etc. 
Gloamin, the twilight. 
GuiDwiFE, the mistress of a house. 
Hearthstane, the hearthstone. 
Heather, the heath. 
Ingle, a fireplace. 
Lassie, a young woman, — a girl — applied 

particularly to a country girl. 
Leesome, pleasant. 
Rig, a ridge. 
Shaw, a small wood. 







UNDER THE WILLOW. 

A RUSTIC fence upon the slope, 

Not far beyond the orchard trees, 

Surrounds a plot of freshest sward, 

A hillock mar'k by two white stones. 

On the rich soil the clover blooms. 

So green is there the eglantine, 

A willow by a headstone droops. 

And moss half hides the simple name. 

In Elmer's field the mowers swing 

Their scythes below in rhythmic time, 

And through the orchard comes the talk 
Of laborers in the curling corn. 



^2 Selections, under the Willow. 



Leans one against the fence hard by 

The peaceful spot and headstone pale, 

As gently stirs the summer breeze 

The willow- tree and eglantine. 

To-day the bramble bush is rank, 

Its ripe fruit glowing through the leaves, 
And nodding near the wooden gate, 

It shifts its shadow on the wall. 

'* 'Twas here we walkt one quiet eve 

The path beyond the ash," he said, 

*'And lingers over Wayland's wood 
In fancy still the sinking sun, 

When friendships we recall'd so oft, 

Which then were dead with buried years, 

And fortune's fickle change — but oft 

What ruthless Death from Time had won.' 

And swing with rhythmic strokes their scythes 
The mowers in the sultry field, 

While through the orchard comes the talk 
Of laborers in the curling corn. 



Poem XXII. 
Under the Willo\ 



Selections, 



43 



And swings the bramble in the wind, 

Its ripe fruit glowing through the leaves, 

As nodding by the wooden gate, 

It shifts its shadow on the wall. 

The sunlight sleeps upon the grass, 

The soft breeze steals along the slope, 

The willow rustles by the mound, 

And o'er it rocks the eglantine ! 





ONE EVE. 

Well, here, at eyen, o*er the gate I'm leaning, 
By the still way that leads to yonder village, 
Whose panes against the western sky are gleaming. 

And from the Past one far-off eve is shining, 

So warm in fancy is a vanished sunset. 

When all the air was genial with the spring-time : 



When the light breeze of evening wooed your tresses. 
And heavy was the air with orchard perfume. 
With odors of the lilacs and the pear-trees : 



^oneEvi"' SelecUoTis, 45 



When half in shadow lay the vale beyond us, 

And half the elms below were toucht with sunshine, 

While at our feet the shallow streamlet lingered: 

When long we talked of the bright days of summer, 
Which soon would bring the field-sparrow to the upland 
At length the wood-thrush to the silent forest. 

And here, at even, o'er the gate I'm leaning. 
While now, I think, so softly sleep the shadows 
On one pale stone among the quiet willows! 





AGNES. 

A GRAND AME, Seated in her easy chair, 
Rehearsed the legends strange one Hallowe'en. 

'Twas by an altar, in an ancient church, 

At Michaelmas, a maiden prayed for death — 

And this the prayer she prayed so earnestly, 

Low-kneeling there before the crucifix : 

"O Son of Mary, who art pitiful! 

The freshness and the greenness of my life 

Is gone — and oft my breath is but a sigh. 

I am as one who sits in cheerless days 

Above the dead, dry mould of summer fields, 

And hears the mournful autumn sigh, or hears 

The bleak winds wildly wail in all the woods 



Poem XXIV. SelecUoTis. 47 



Agnes. 



Of spring. So dreary and so joyless seem, 
Alas, all days to me, from morn to eve, 
At length this boon I ask — that I may taste 
The sweetness and the blessedness of death." 



The hoar frost came, then went the wintry days, 
And warmer breezes stir the maple leaf. 
The bramble-berry ripens by the wall. 

Late is the hour, and scarce the wandering wind 
Disturbs the hush of yonder lonely spot, 
When underneath the silent summer moon. 
She with a lover in the church-yard walks. 
Why seek the two the church-yard lone and still. 
Or there rewalk the grass-grown path so oft. 
Where headstones glisten in the moonlight pale? 
Below the quiet moon they tell their love. 
And plight their troth beneath the cypress tree! 
And so All-Hallows' soon should make them one. 
The two be wed within the ancient church, 
That stood with ivied walls and tower thereby, 
Where once the maiden knelt, at Michaelmas, 
And prayed before the crucifix for death. 



48 Selections. ^°Tgnes. 



All-Hallow night; for months have come and gone. 

Dim burn the lights within the ancient church, 

While in the west the waning moon is wan. 

So dense the throng, that scarcely there is seen 

The haggard sexton's form, whose grave hard by, 

Within the shadow of the gloomy fir, 

To-night is green — or hers, the withered belle. 

Who died so long ago, or that frail form 

Which so sepulchral looks amid the crowd, 

On whom in autumn late the aster blows 

Each year — or hers, with face so blanch'd, who passed 

One summer morn from earth, and yonder stands 

Before the picture of the risen Christ — 

Or hers, the maiden by a lighted shrine, 

Whose eyes on yon Madonna oft are bent, 

Who faded like a rare and fragile flower 

One far-off June — or scarce is noticed hers, 

On earth a castaway, who gazes long 

Upon the likeness of the Magdalen — 

Or hers, on whom the grass is rank, who turns 

So often to the painting on the wall. 

The martyrdom of St. Sebastian — 

Or hers, within the twilight of a niche, 

Whose life went out upon her wedding-day, 



''Tgn^s^''^- Selections. 49 



On wliom each spring has waved the guelder-rose- 
Or hers, the fair bride once, but standing there 
With countenance so white against the panes, 
Who faded with the orange-bloom she wore. 
And lies to-night beneath the eglantine! 

Lo, up the aisle the bridegroom and the bride 
To the high altar walk. And there, as sets 
The waning moon, and tolls the midnight bell 
Within the ivied tower — the twain are wed. 

And closely to his breast he presses her, 

In his embrace! Then o'er her features stole 

A mortal paleness — while in low, faint tones, 

As when a breeze is dying in the pines, 

She breathed these words in slow, expiring breath 

*' Sweet is thy kiss, and yet thy lips so cold ! " 




A REVERY. 

The time, the place, I think, are now so distant, 
It was an August eve, as I remember, 
And we were sitting on the quiet grass-plot. 

So gently o'er us stole the night's slow shadow, 

So faint the lamp-light through the casement glimmer'd, 

So lightly in our ears the woodbine rustled. 

So long we sat and watched the distant lighthouse. 
The far-off village and the dusky headland, 
So long the river flowing darkly seaward. 

So oft the languid night-wind stirred your tresses, 
So long our hands were claspt in that still starlight, 
So low and earnest were the accents spoken. 

So mellow'd is the scene as I recall it. 
As when upon a tranquil night in autumn, 
The moon on some far field is softly shining ! 




TOWARD THE BOURNE. 

Impalpable, yet visible, 

One wandering in the dewy air, 
Beside me walkt with gentle mien, 

. With pensive face and flowing hair. 

No word she spoke, but beckoned oft 

To one low star whose steady light 

Gleamed over fields beyond our ken. 
As on we wended in the night. 

So long we kept our westward course, 

We roamed as in a world of dreams, 

In moonlit vales, o'er lengthening plains. 

And trod the banks of unknown streams. 



52 



Selections, 



Poem XXVI. 
Toward the Bourne. 



Behind us lay the dusky fields 

O'er which our feet had fared so far, 
But in the west so brightly shone 

Upon us still the one low star. 

We waikt the strand so chill and drear, 
We sailed the low tide lightly o'er, 

As rode the boat the silent sea, 

And gently dipt the boatman's oar! 





ADELINE. 

In the depths of the deep dark wood 

There's a hush where the calm winds sleep, 

Not a leaf in the thick gloom stirs, 

Nor the stars through the thick leaves peer, 

Where the wandering moon comes not, 

And the sounds of the day fall dead. 

All day long sits the horned owl 

In the depths of the deep dark wood, 

But the silence is broken there 

By the flap of his wings at night, 

When he flies at the midnight hour 

From his nook in the old oak tree. 

There at mid-day sits Adeline 

At the foot of the gnarled oak. 

In the shade of the forest still 

And a plaint through the forest steals : 



«* Selections. ''"TdS.'f" 



At yester-eve I pluckt a rose, 

(O heart forlorn,) 
My lover left me yester-eve. 

He did not come at morn. 

Alas, for the rose 

That left with me the thorn. 



Fair sun may rise and set, 
(O heart forlorn,) 

He will not come to-morrow eve, 

He will not come at morn. 
So rare was the rose, 
But leaves with me the thorn. 





AFTER THE WRECK. 

At the edge of the wind-blown pines. 

The fisherman's cottage stands, 

Down by the beach, 

And the long, straight reach 

Of the white sea-sands. 



Sits in the cottage one 

Gazing far over the main 

Toward the quietly setting sun. 

And there by the window-pane 

Is a child with a sweet, sad face, 

That wistfully 

Looks out on the rippling sea. 



56 Selections. AfteTthewTi": 



"Not to-uight, alas! 

He comes not to-night," 

The mother says, with a sigh, 

And the fair child weeps, 

And the mother gazes over the waves 

With tearful eyes at the sunset sky. 

But down by the beach 
And the long, straight reach 
Of the white sea-sands, 
To the fisherman's door 
Comes the fisherman no more. 





THE TWO WAYS. 

'TwAs at the parting of the ways we stood, 

And goes the by-way there 

Across the level lea, 

The other by the silent wood= 

We parted at the parting of the ways, 

That never could for us be one, 

And since so far apart our paths have run. 

There winds the homeward way, 

The other o'er the lea 

Forever to the deep blue sea ! 

8 




THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 

" She will not wake,'* said one, 
"More still her breath at last, 

Than low winds husht at eve, 
Whose pain, we know, is past." 

Fresh stole the early air 

Across the summer corn; 
The night had brought her rest. 

Nepenthe at the morn. 

Long has the small house yonder overlooked 
The orchard, where the well- worn pathway runs 
To Dawson's mill. And from the wide highway 
Which climbs the slope to meet the silent street 
A little lane between the hedges leads 
To the still cottage. Thence the eye may catch, 
Above the orchard and neglected hedge, 



The Mifki's Daughter. S eleCtiOTlS , ^9 



A distant prospect of the vale below, 
The winding brook that steals between the elms, 
And peaceful meadow-lands, or upland farms, 
With rustling grain-fields glistening in the sun. 

Well, no, the cottage is not far away, 

Just up the shady, sleepy lane hard by. 

There lives the white-hair'd miller, there has lived, 

I'm thinking, now two score of years or more. 

And I remember at this hour so well, 

The miller's daughter. Pleasant is her face 

As I recall it, and the hazel eyes 

Are full of tenderness, and fair is yet 

The brow. What matters it if she has lain 

For years beneath the aspen-tree? The dead live oft 

In Memory, and my thoughts are in the Past 

To-night. 

It was, but it was autumns since, 
Upon a Hallowe'en, and in the rites 
Yet practiced at that superstitious eve, 
'Twas said she saw a lover's handsome face, 



^>0 Selections, The MHiS-'s Daughte?. 



A mask, a coffin, and a snow-white stone. 
And thinking of the face which she beheld, 
Within the mirror of the darkened room, 
She laughed. Nor ceased the giddy merriment 
Until the bell within the ivied tower 
Of yonder church, toll'd forth the midnight hour. 

That night like other Hallowe'ens had gone. 
And often was recall'd to mind the scene. 
Whose rites had once evoked the mystic signs 
Of Love and Death. 

And in the course of time 
The maiden's love was won, to her were pledged 
The hand, the faith, the troth of Edward Earl. 

The months went by, the seasons passed, a year, 
But toward her lukewarm grew his heart. And still 
At times, the two would walk the orchard path 
In pleasant afternoons, or twilight grey, 
Or sometimes loiter in the quiet lane, 
Or sit an hour beside the cottage door. 
As softly waned the light of setting suns. 
October came ere long with mellow days. 



Poem XXX, ci 7 j. ' /» i 

The Miller's Daughter. beleCtlOThS. <> 1 



He went more seldom to the cottage. Yet 

Less frequent. Then, one evening at the gate, 

He press'd her hand, and said a calm "good by." 

The "good by" coldly fell upon her ear, 

And woke a mournful echo in her soul. 

So fickle was her lover, it was said. 

Nay, nay, but false the heart of Edward Earl. 

One night, old Montague, the sexton, sat 

Late in the sacristy, I've heard him say. 

As through a window shone the summer moon. 

And while he gazed upon the headstones near, 

He thought how often he had ply'd his spade 

And laid the dead to rest hard by. And oft 

He thought of them he'd brought to slumber there 

Since the wild wintry night he last had rung 

The old year out, the new year in. 

" So fast 
The hour-glass runs," he thought, "the years slide by! 
At best life's but a span. And well I know 
The travellers reach the self-same goal at last, 
Where all roads meet. To-night old Floyd sleeps well, 
And sound by yonder locust Roger Rand. 
To-night the grass beneath the willow tree 
Is green on Nancy Gavin's grave." 



62 S&l&CtiOJlS. The MiUe?s Daughter. 



The breeze 
Stole o'er the sexton's cheek, but scarcely stirr'd 
The ivy at the casement. Softly gleam'd 
A moment in the west a setting star, 
But lower'd o'er Langley's wood a gloomy cloud. 
And gazed old Montague upon the scene, 
The landscape glimmering in the moonlight pale. 
Where vague the valley in the distance lay, 
While far along the warm horizon loom'd 
The dusky outlines of the silent hills. 

And white the headstones in the church-yard gleam! 

As in the sacristy the sexton sits 

Buried in thought. But in the low church tower 

The bell, at length, the hour of midnight tolls, 

And wakes him from his revery. The tones 

Die on his ear, and faint the lamp burns yet 

Upon the table. Did he fancy it, 

Or did a face peer on him through the vines, 

A woman's face, a woman's figure glide 

Among the tombstones, hasten down the path. 

And straightway vanish through the church-yard gate? 



The Miller's Daughter. SeleCtiOJlS. ^3 



Tlie grass grows rank by Dawson's pond, and low 

The willows o'er its margin lean, but bloom 

The honeysuckle and the celandine, 

The wild rosemary every summer there. 

Dark is its water in the moonless nights, 

And silent is the gloomy water-way. 

As oft the beetle whirs among the reeds. 

Or sometimes when the days are long, the crow 

Will sit within the solitary ash 

Hard by, or near it in the button- wood, 

Half -dead at top, the black-bird watch the sun. 

Still is the mill, and still the water-way, 
And cool the shadows sleep in Dawson's pond. 
They slowly bear her from the water's edge, 
The miller's daughter, on the morrow when 
Above the willows broke the morning light. 
Yes, slowly in the early morning air, 
They bear her lifeless up the narrow path 
That winds among the ancient orchard trees. 
To yonder doorway where the woodbine hides 
The miller's cottage. Ah ! her grave was deep, 
In quiet water. 



64 



Selections. 



Poem XXX. 

The Miller's Daughter. 



And beyond the church 
They gently laid her, but with many a tear, 
A few rods from the church-yard wall. And when 
The sexton broke the fresh turf for her grave, 
At morn, 'tis said the raven thrice he heard 
Above him, in the grey light of the dawn. 
Yet blossoms over her the goldenrod, 
Each year the daisy. Late in autumn once 
I pluck'd an aster from her peaceful mound. 




THE END. 



